


School Sweet School

by Spiria



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiria/pseuds/Spiria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex returns to the school. The contentious search for Scott begins as Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters resumes its call for students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alex

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for this prompt on the kink meme: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/11912.html?thread=23158152#t23158152
> 
> There's a whole lot I could revise and redo with this story. Still, I grew as a writer and am pleased with how it turned out for an experimental piece. It may be choppy from how fragmented the updates were over a period of some seven months, but I hope the reader enjoys. Thank you!

Alex had not been to school for a long time.

The placard inscribed with "XAVIER'S SCHOOL FOR GIFTED YOUNGSTERS" no longer hung on the wall, but sat tellingly on the dirt surrounded by overgrown vegetation. Next to it, the gates were almost rusted. The mansion that stood behind the bars still looked regal in its massive glory, albeit haunted.

The school was quiet on the outside, an inconspicuous piece of archaic building to the passerby. Considering that, and even after months away in a muggy zone overseas, something about the air felt stale to Alex.

Exhaling out of his mouth, Alex tightened his grip on the bag slung over his shoulder and, with his other hand, admitted himself.

Passing the aging centerpiece, he approached the doors in a few long strides. He stopped and stared at the polished wood. He bobbed on his feet and exhaled again, craning his neck to work off the tension in his shoulders. He knocked, counted to six, and received no answer.

Nobody was home.

"So much for that," muttered Alex.

He had lived here before. Procuring the key, he admitted himself for the second time.

It was like a tornado had ripped through and taken every living soul inside, with just the shred of decency to leave be the furniture. Alex's brows furrowed as he navigated the open space, where students and teachers had once bustled. It was silent now, and the echo of his footsteps were deafening.

Alex found his room on muscle memory. The room was as he had left it prior to his departure for the army. The layer of dust was new, but that was child's play to what Vietnam had thrown his way. A little dust hurt no one.

It did mean the school was every bit as neglected as it appeared. On his way over, only the most traversed paths had been clear of dust; the stuff sat on everything else, including the door knobs.

Alex's mind wandered to Charles and Hank, the last of the original team to have remained after everyone else had splintered off. The school was Charles' home, so he must have gone out with Hank in tow. Alex had no stories of Vietnam to share, perhaps save one, but he was more interested in hearing the school's side of things.

He dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and sunk onto the clean, made sheets. The mattress was soft, hugging his body in a familiar embrace the army bunks had neglected. The soft tingling sensation in his feet roared to life from the tantalizing taste of comfort. His feet remembered the miles they had marched and ached with a vengeance.

He was not hungry, and the school was as dead as a funeral home. So Alex shrugged off his boots and took a nap.

When he woke up, Alex raided the fridge. There was a fair amount of food stocked in the kitchen, so he knew the school was not totally deserted.

He slid into one of the chairs lining the dining counter and took a mouthful of the stuff he had taken. Even his chewing was dreadfully loud in what seemed to be the deadest, most remote place on earth.

He had not imagined coming back to a throng of squealing children and exasperated adults, like a playground or a day care center. He had expected a modicum of noise, the telltale shuffling of at least a handful of students headed for their next class, and maybe another handful of teachers to guide them.

In the end, he got neither, but there it was – the sound of a vehicle rolling in from the gateway, doors being opened and shut, and then the click of the entrance being opened.

Swallowing, Alex left the rest of his sandwich and power walked down the hall. At the entrance, he saw Charles rolling in in a wheelchair first; then a gaggle of children, all of varying ages and numbering no more than three, but the difference was significant enough the house seemed to boom; and, lastly, Hank, dressed as smartly as usual.

Charles' and Hank's attention was on the children as they spilled into the center of the mansion, their mouths agape and eyes wide. Their enthusiasm played on Charles' reserved features, a corner of his lips tugging but struggling to go the whole way. Hank was the same as ever, stiff and nervous.

Hands shoved in his pant pockets, Alex emerged from the convenient shadow cast over him by the hallway wall. Before his first step so much as touched the floor, Charles was already looking at him, lips parted in interrupted thought.

Alex came to a casual stop when all eyes followed Charles to settle on him. He was closer now, if still distant. "Hey."

"Alex." Propping himself up by the elbows on the armrest, Charles' head leaned to one shoulder as he regarded the namesake. "You're back."

"Yeah." Alex's searching gaze drifted to the children, who watched him like he was the freaky clown of the party. He pursed his lips.

After a second, Hank took the note and led the children away to show them their rooms.

Charles was still craning his neck and watching him. There was a stifling pause, then Charles shifted his head toward the other shoulder. He was thinking, and while that was not a surprise in and of itself, he looked odd doing it with the tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth and peeking through his lips.

Alex took his hands out of his pockets. He pointed to the door with his chin. "No one answered, so I let myself in."

"That's fine. You do live here."

Alex shifted his weight between legs. "And what's with this place?"

"It's coming back," said Charles, after some deliberation, as he bobbed his head.

"That's what they're for." He glanced in the direction Hank had taken the children in the once empty school building. "I'm missing something. Big time."

Charles fingered his chin, his gaze drifting to the stairway. Looking back, he pointed behind him to his study. "Why don't we discuss this inside?"

They were already inside, but only Alex thought the suggestion humorous as he followed Charles with a wry smile.

The ensuing conversation was more a condensed summary than a proper story, which was for the best: If it were any longer, Alex's attention, for all the respect he paid Charles, would have threatened to wander.

To start, Charles had given him a bullet point list of events (new and old since the departure to Vietnam) with a glazed look about him. He was still a wavering picture of sobriety and inebriety, and his fingers played with his face too much. His words had come in short, frequent stops as he had pulled back the premature statements, doubt oozing from his once confident and tall frame. His list had thus ended in short detail.

"So," Charles finished, "Hank and I took some time to search for new, younger mutants. Those three will be our first students of the oncoming term."

"So," Alex echoed with arched brows, "three kids and zero teachers."

Charles chewed on his lower lip. "We're working on that."

"Can't you just use Cerebro?"

"I have been. But using it still wears on my mind, and the number of mutants in the general area has thinned with the war's increasing demands." Charles shifted in his seat. His fingers slid from his face and curled into a light fist. "Finding suitable teachers will take much longer than the first time, I'm afraid."

"So, what, we're a day care and Hank's playing Mommy until teachers start popping out of nowhere?"

"I wasn't aware you were interested in contributing, Alex," said Charles.

"I live here," grumbled Alex. His lips twitched and he turned away.

Bending forward by a calculated inch, Charles steepled his fingers. "Hank will come with me if candidates arise in the future. We'll need someone to watch the children when that happens."

Alex blinked. "You want me to babysit. I outgrow my energy diaper; now you want me to do theirs."

"They don't have energy diapers, Alex. They don't need any."

Alex leaned back in his chair. "Everyone need energy diapers. Some are just smaller than others."

"Well," started Charles, bending his fingers, "seeing as you possess unmatched knowledge and experience in the realm of energy diapers, I see no person more suitable for the job than you. Now, when would you like to start?"

Rolling his eyes, then his shoulders to work off the sudden burden, Alex craned his neck in the direction of the gate. The view was blocked by the wall, but he could remember the sorry state of the estate kissed by excessive vegetation, and the lame placard sitting outside. No parent in their right mind would send their child to a school looking like that.

In his haste to throw himself back into his old work, as well as the lack of proper manpower, Charles had neglected to pursue the most basic task first.

"After I finish my sandwich," said Alex, and he pressed against the armrests with his palms as he stood.

He thought what they needed foremost was a janitor, rather than a babysitter. Against his better judgment, he smirked when Charles reacted with widening eyes and those nervous fingers balled into a tender fist again, like someone had struck him with an embarrassing realization.

Alex spent the next few days on a simple routine, sweeping the exterior of the mansion and trimming the overgrown garden plants with amateurish grace. It was a quiet, solitary role he was content to fill for the sake of working off excess energy bundled over time in Vietnam. Dirt and stray leaves clung to every imaginable part of him – on his clothing, in his hair – and he brushed them off without fuss.

He noticed, when he did temporarily move into the dusty mansion for cleaning, that Hank fulfilled his role as "mommy" as dutifully as opportunity allowed. The children were just as satisfied to roam the school and play at being independent; for the most part, they left the adults "and Alex" alone. When they sought him, though, they came down hard on Hank, who had tasks of his own but was patient through each encounter, if out of place.

Each time it happened, Alex tucked his hands into his pockets, sneered (halfheartedly), and rolled his head in the corner of Hank's peripheral vision. And every time, when Hank finally looked up to meet him with an inquisitive stare, Alex walked away at that moment.

The aspiring students had approached Alex on a busy day, once, and taken to watching in muted bemusement. They knew he was a mutant like them. But after Alex had set his lips thin and offered little in the way of getting to know him, they had shuffled away in search of better things to do before school came to session. Their departure lifted something from Alex's tired shoulders.

Today, Alex was clearing away the aging spots on the centerpiece in the circular drive-through. His sleeves were rolled up and he scrubbed away in a solid, steady rhythm at the stubborn stone. He stopped when the soft tap of footsteps on ground alerted him and glanced over his shoulder.

It was the eldest child, a 15-year-old girl who came from a foster home. She had been placed into the system after her parents had been deemed unfit to care for their daughter; purportedly, the decision had not been a tough one. She was the first student potential Charles and Hank had invited, much as she had been the first to accept. She was an only child, which made going from one affiliation to another almost seamless. She was also born in Boston, and that was why her Rs were weak.

Alex knew all of this, because he had met many talkative people in his rocky life, and not even Charles could hope to beat this girl in a verbal contest of words per minute. Once she found a momentum, she trucked on like yapping was all she could do. Ignoring her only seemed to encourage her to drone on like the boring history teacher nobody wanted in high school. Only, instead of world history, she told her own in a manner not unlike that of a lecture.

Today, she told him about her home and life therein with great detail. Alex thought that was what it was; he was tuning out every other word in sync with the motion of his scrubbing. As she went on, seated on the lowest step of the small staircase connected to the mansion door, her hands folded neatly on her lap with her legs drawn up, Alex gripped the rag tighter.

Finally, he threw the rag down onto the edge of the centerpiece. He did so with a distinct lack of strength behind the action. It served its purpose in getting the girl to stop. "Why are you telling me these things?"

Without missing a beat, the girl said, "Hank is awkward."

"So what?"

"Charles is old," she added.

"No, he's not," said Alex.

Charles was old, but not that old. He dressed well enough and his hair was still brown. He was not crotchety, and, if he had owned a cane, would have had more class than to wave it around and demand children off of his lawn. If anything, he wanted them there.

"He's busy," she said, relentless and cutting through the mental image. "Hank said we shouldn't bother him when he's looking."

Alex was about to say that Hank knew no better when the words snagged in his throat. He shook his head, instead, and settled on the centerpiece. The rag laid in a haphazard pile to his left. "That doesn't mean you get to bother me next."

"Why not?"

"In case you didn't notice, I'm busy."

"You're sitting," she said, unimpressed, her tone of voice flat.

Alex responded in kind. "I'm resting. Quit bothering me."

"What was your home like?" she asked.

With a shake of his head, he leaped from his seat on the centerpiece and paced inside, brushing past the girl as he did. If she got up to follow, Alex did not notice as he was already halfway down the hall when his thought and direction veered, but not before coming to a grinding, cacophonous halt. His mind jumbled inside itself with racing thoughts and he huffed, concentrating the tension to his hands and calming.

Alex leaned an arm against the wall. On that, he leaned his forehead. He grimaced and stood there for a moment, frozen in that position, before he peeled himself off. His skin was clammy from a bit of perspiration.

He inhaled, deeply, then loitered around the mansion for a while. The children must have gone off to some remote corner of the school, with Hank either in their company or his lonesome, nerdy own. It was all good and convenient for Alex, who took to the quiet, listening, before he retired to his room for the day.

After dinner, which he had elected to skip, for he was not too hungry and more caught up on something else, Alex moved with brisk steps to the study. But he hesitated to knock on reaching the double doors, like he had with the front doors on first returning, and the urge to tear the wood to splinters with his power was overwhelming.

"Come in, Alex," chimed Charles, his voice muffled but permeating from inside through the wood.

Just like that, Alex puffed his cheeks with another heavy breath, his urge tamed, and he entered. He closed the door behind him, for once.

Charles leaned forward and rested an arm on his desk, appraising. "I haven't seen you all day – not even down for dinner. Is there something – anything – that you need, Alex?"

Alex stood on his answer in that significant moment, when he could have easily handed over the question then and there for more appraisal. But, like with the girl, like he seemed prone to for everything these days, it was caught and he passed his weight between his feet. He rolled his eyes, not sarcastically, and looked at everything but Charles until there was nothing left to see.

Charles was patient, as ever. But there was something looming in the air, unlike before.

"It's," started Alex, at last, only to stop as he decided that he had started on the wrong word. "You've been using Cerebro. That's what you use to find those kids." Hastily, he added: "And the teachers that don't exist."

Charles stared, his expression blank and his mind obviously processing, as he nodded. "Yes, Alex. I use Cerebro to find those kids. And the teachers that don't exist."

The repetition ended on a mildly humorous note. Alex breathed, remembering.

"Well, it's," he stopped again, cursing the word in his thoughts. He stopped and stared at the ground. The anger rose, tempting him to succumb to it, so he blurted in a frenzy of hurried words, "I want you to look for someone."

The room went quiet as Charles straightened, his attention more focused. Before Alex could think to take back the request, he was asked, "Who?"

Familiar doubt welled in Alex's chest and he raised his hands, as though he could grasp the moment and rewind it. "Look – I don't even know if he's a mutant. But I need to know. You can do that, right?"

"Yes, I can," said Charles, albeit belatedly. He played with his face again, his fingers curling around its contour. He was treading with care. "But Alex, this is one person you're talking about. Who is he? What's his name?"

Alex pursed his lips. Then he said, "Scott."

Just as quickly as he had touched his face, Charles' fingers drooped and came to a rest on his desk. He stared with narrowed eyes, like he was beginning to see the freaky party clown the children had on their first day.

"What?" asked Alex, his tone of voice defensive.

"Who is Scott?"

The slow intrigue with which Charles asked burst all of his control, and Alex, with shoulders hunched in a more overt show of defensiveness, looked away and turned for the door. "Forget it."

The tip of Alex's fingers had just touched the knob when Charles drew back and pushed against his wheelchair to round the desk. The hum of the wheelchair told of his moving in closer, and Charles' voice was even clearer and louder in its increasing proximity, with a hint of hastiness. "I can't look for someone using only his name. Please, Alex. I can tell this is important to you. You've never asked for a favor before."

"No," Alex grasped the knob with purpose, "this was a waste of time."

"Are you afraid that I won't be able to see him? That Scott isn't a mutant and cannot be found?"

Tilting his head, which felt heavier than ever before, rivaling the time he had been wracked with guilt over the incident with his sister, Alex threw the door open and stomped away. Despite calling his name, Charles did not stop him, nor speak to him in his mind. Alex was let go, and he used that opportunity to speed toward his room, where he holed himself up for the night and paced and made fists and cursed.

The next day, Alex set about clearing the vines growing around the gateway and the walls hugging it. What was meant to be a tense but quiet day of beating the messy vegetation no longer came to be when the 15-year-old menace dropped down by the gate and clung to the bars. Alex made it a point to ignore her invasive stare.

She began to talk, and this time, Alex did not even hear every other word. He heard no word at all, just the droning of her voice and the slightly weird accent. The vines were a bother, and he had the patience to deal with the one and not any more.

He did, however, catch the tail end of what she was saying – something about jocks – when an off-place sound called him back to the world beyond the garden disaster. Alex recognized it as the telltale whirring of Charles' wheelchair, and he had half a mind to throw down the garden tool in his hand. A large part of that dissipated when Charles asked the girl to leave, and some of it came back when he added it could be so that he might talk to Alex alone.

"What do you want?" asked Alex, with as much dismissive tone he could muster.

"I think you know what," said Charles.

Alex cast Charles a wry, bitter smile and turned back to trim at the vines. "We're not talking about this."

"Actually," Charles moved closer, "yes, we are. This is important to you. And if it's important to you, then it is to me, as well."

"Yeah," challenged Alex, still not looking at Charles, much less in the eyes, "until nothing happens."

"You don't know if Scott is what you think he is. For all we know, he could be just like you: a mutant." Charles paused. "You still haven't told me who he is."

"It was a mistake to even bring it up. So  _forget it_ ," pressed Alex. He snipped away some more of the green stuff before scooping up the fallen parts in fistfuls to deposit them in a disposable bag.

But Charles was not deterred. There was a tense pause he stopped to take in a breath. "Let me help, Alex. Looking for a single person, especially one that I do not know, is much more arduous than you might think." Charles paused again. "But I'm not at all opposed to trying. Just one time, Alex. Let me try this for you, once."

After a moment, and some deliberate thought, Alex straightened and faced Charles. He let the gardening tool dangle in his grasp, the tension still strong in his overworked posture that he simply stood there, almost limp and defeated with the temptation.

He took another moment to gather himself. Then he looked square into Charles' eyes, his own expecting and not expecting at once, and said, "Just one time. After that, we don't talk about this."

"It's a deal."

They promptly abandoned the pathetic gateway – where, at least, the placard had been put back up – and went on down to Cerebro. Alex was allowed into the main room, of which he barely took notice in his dread in spite of Charles' reassuring words.

"You sound more sure about this than me," said Alex as he stood behind Charles' left.

Charles was settling into Cerebro, and although the neither of them was all too confident, his motions were more practiced and invested than Alex's stiff strides on the way. "There must be a reason. You've been thinking about the possibility all this time. No one is to say if you're off the mark." He chanced a glance over his shoulder at Alex. "Are you ready for this?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"Don't move," said Charles. He engaged Cerebro.

At the end of it, Charles sagged from having his energy sapped in going for an exceptionally long session. He slumped forward after disengaging with a strangled gasp, using the panel to support his weight as his body threatened to spill out of his wheelchair.

Alex stood as still as a statue, his breath quiet and nigh nonexistent. He looked at Charles. The thought of comfort was fleeting as he shook his head to himself and took a step back. "I told you."

Charles was too fatigued to respond in time, much as he tried and struggled for breath.

Betrayed, Alex inched toward the open doorway, gaze lingering on Charles, then fled.

As per their deal, Alex continued about his usual work and was unapproached by Charles on the matter of that promise. Whether he was being avoided or simply missed was unseen, but Alex had no interest in distinguishing between the two. He was more set on adding the finishing touches by clearing away the last of the green stuff growing, unchecked, all over the mansion.

Within the same week, Charles and Hank left early in the morning one day. They came back in the middle of the evening with another potential student in tow. A couple of days following that, they came back with news of a potential teacher, who was in the process of preparing for the transition and move.

Alex met Charles in the hallway and, on a whim, struck a conversation. "So that's, what, four kids and one teacher?"

Charles did not miss a beat as he looked up. "Two, actually. I  _can_  teach, you know."

"You wouldn't be a professor if you couldn't," said Alex.

Charles only bobbed his head in agreement. Just as quickly, their words died between them, and Alex fidgeted, his lips pursing, before he pivoted back in his originally intended direction.

"Better get them here fast. I can't babysit every time you go out," said Alex, glancing over his shoulder.

"Why can't you?" Charles challenged, unmoving. He, too, was looking over his shoulder. "You've done it both times we've been out. Your outside work is finished, isn't it?"

The ghost of a smirk passed Alex's features, the skin around his lips tugging. "Yeah, but I only have two eyes. Think I can watch thirty of them by myself? One's enough to drive me crazy."

He thought about Boston Girl and almost grimaced.

"Thirty," echoed Charles. "You think so highly of the possibility that we'll be drawing in more students."

"Once you get a momentum going, it doesn't stop."

Charles nodded slowly, his head dipping lower than before. "Perhaps you're right."

Alex resumed his pace on that note. He was aware of Charles' following gaze, but, because Charles said nothing, he found no reason to stop in his short journey to the kitchen.

He had babysat, in a word, and it had taken little out of him to have done so. He was reminded on the day that Charles and Hank were away that the children were independent enough to fend for themselves, and that, he realized, included meals to a certain extent. The children knew better than to leave the gates, and they played where they could be seen from a higher window in the mansion.

For being rather young, they were low maintenance, as though they had learned caution with the manifestation of their mutation – excepting the one time in the late afternoon after lunch, when a boy had tried climbing a tree and gotten stuck like a cat. Alex had gone down to fetch him, and thereafter given him the short choice word of "don't" with regards to the next time.

Shaking his head, Alex ate, then went outside for a long due workout. His arms had gotten enough exercise over the course of the cleaning, but his legs had only borne weight in that time and ached for a run.

He started when he opened the front entrance and found Boston Girl sitting on the steps again.

When she caught sight of him, she was quick to strike with that impassive gaze of hers. "You never did tell me."

"Tell you what?" asked Alex, the words slow and wary.

"About your home life. You don't want to talk about it?"

"No." Alex maneuvered around her, racking his mind for a running course. "Not everyone talks nonstop like you."

"You're shorter today," she said, with uncharacteristic vagueness.

"Yeah? Then don't talk to me," snapped Alex. He jogged away without waiting for a response, without care for what face she might or might not have made, and soon broke into a steady run. The beating of his feet against the concrete matched that of his heart. He focused on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, and nothing else.

When he had finished his run and was heading back inside, he saw Charles and Hank talking through the window from outside. Charles' back was to the window, but Alex noticed how Hank gave the tiniest of nods now and then as Charles' head moved to and fro in that animated way he spoke.

Uneasiness settled on his sweaty shoulders, and Alex rushed past the doors to hit the showers. He pulled off his clothes, letting each article drop to the bathroom floor in his haste to do what he had been doing since his return from Vietnam: clean.

Despite the run and the soothing wash, some of the tension from before clung to his damp skin. It was a maddening sensation that ripped a combination of a growl and a grunt from his throat as Alex gave his hair a rigorous rub beneath the towel. The energy still bubbled beneath his skin, all throughout his frame, and he pulled on fresh clothes with more force than was necessary.

He paced his room for all of a minute. Then he was stealing his way down to the nuclear bunker, his blood pumping and pounding, something else in his body seeking escape.

At the bunker, he threw the door open and leaped inside. In a flash, energy materialized from his hands and shot through the long corridor. The blast hit the wall and fizzled out in a forceful display, and was soon followed by a series of the same kind, then another, until Alex was spent inasmuch the excess force had been let out.

He had just climbed the last of the steps back up when Charles came whirring his way.

"Ah, excellent timing, Alex," said Charles. "I was hoping you'd join me."

"For what?"

Charles was already riding away in his wheelchair. "See me at my office."

Alex stared, but did as asked and followed Charles to the office. Unlike the last time, he kept the door open behind him as he asked, "So what's this about?"

Behind his desk, Charles leaned forward and propped his elbow up on the surface. "I was hoping you'd tell me about Scott."

"I thought we weren't talking about this anymore."

"I don't intend to talk about Cerebro and what I could do with it, so you don't have to worry." Charles gestured to the empty chair across him. He continued when Alex made no show of moving from the front of the doorway. "I'm just curious as to who he is and how you know him. You didn't say much about him last time."

Alex scowled. "What is it with everyone and wanting to know my life story? It's none of your business!"

Charles let a moment pass before he said, with care, "If you'd rather not share, that's fine. It's just that this, whatever it is, is consuming you. Don't say it isn't, because I've seen the way you moved all day. And you've been projecting, though I'll tell you here and now that I didn't pry beyond that."

"Stay out of my head," warned Alex.

"I would love to. I have no intention of getting in your head, Alex. I only want you to be honest about what it is that's got you winded so tight." Charles emphasized, "You're hurting."

"He's my brother, okay? That's it. That's all. Now stop asking me about him."

If Charles was about to choke on his own air, he hid it well enough through a heavy exhalation that made his nostrils flare. He tilted his face. His hand was drawn up, and his fingers were curled to touch his jaw, but they hung frozen in the air as a thought seemed to strike him.

If it were anyone else, Alex would have fled. Even now, his feet itched to carry himself out of the office. His hands twitched to shut the door to prevent Charles from following.

Charles, having regained his composure at last, leaned back into his wheelchair. "I had no idea that you had a brother."

Rolling his eyes, Alex took a step back. His left hand snaked up to touch the doorway at chest level. "It wasn't important." But the words came forced through gritted teeth. He took the edge of the door in his other hand. "And before you say it is, we had a deal. Don't bring him up again." He moved out to close the door on Charles.

"How would you like to be a teacher?" asked Charles in haste.

Alex paused. He swung the door back open, his brows furrowed. "What?"

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in teaching the children once school starts."

"Where's this even coming from? I'm not a teacher," said Alex.

Charles shrugged. "No, but you could most likely teach a physical course despite your lack of experience. You said it to me once before, that you live here. Seeing as this is a school, it would be good for you to have something to do besides the afternoon run."

His fingers closed around the door went numb, and Alex readjusted his grip, but his posture had gone slack. "I'll think about it."

"Please do." Charles gestured to the door with the point of two fingers. "You can close the door now."

Alex did, and, to his relief, he was still spent. When he made it back to his room, however, he collapsed onto the bed like he had run tens of miles with no soreness or sweat to show for it. His weight on the clean sheets wrinkled them, and they creased even more when he pushed against them to sit up.

He settled on the edge of the bed, his legs spread and hands cupped in the space between them. He sat there and thought.


	2. Scott

The warning bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, and students began to pour into the hallway from every which way. The gossip at the lunch table followed them in a cacophonous racket, their howls of laughter and chortles and loud whispers bouncing off the walls. The conversation tapered off into a murmur of farewells as each student slipped into his respective class, however, and the hall was deserted as quickly as it had been filled.

Alone with a handful of stragglers, Scott withdrew his textbook for next period and shut his locker closed. From the same side of the hall, where his locker had been open and obstructing his view, he saw Stan Hensey wave at him with the cock of his head. "Hey, Scott! Got time after school?"

Scott shook his head. "Can't! I'm seeing Selena."

"Again?" Stan rolled his eyes, mocking, but his tone of voice light.

Scott smiled, his lips wry in a show of apology. "Next time."

Shrugging, Stan turned away. "See you tomorrow."

Even the stragglers had found their way. Spurred on by the silence, Scott turned in the opposite direction and shuffled to his class, the door to which was closed. He reached for the knob.

The tips of his fingers had just touched the round brass knob when a sharp pain shot through his head. With a stifled gasp, Scott's knees bent on reflex as he raised a hand to his temple. His textbook slipped out of his grasp and fell to the floor with a deafening echo.

The door opened from the inside, revealing the teacher. "You all right, Summers?"

Scott winced. He craned his neck and blinked. "Yeah. Sorry." He bent down to scoop up the fallen textbook before snapping back to form. His knees popped in protest as he stood tall.

"Don't be," said the teacher, terse but not unkind. Just then, the second bell rang. "You're not tardy. Just on time, actually. Take a seat."

Scott slid into the frontmost seat nearest to the door, one of the few vacancies left, and brought his attention to the board as the teacher began to address the students.

No more than ten words later on the teacher's part, the back of Scott's head throbbed as though it were pulsating against an invisible pressure clawing through his skull. Scott rubbed his right temple with his index and middle fingers, massaging. There was the faintest relief for all of a minute before the throbbing returned with a vengeance. He hunched forward to rest his head in his hands, dug the flat of his thumbs into each temple, and pressed, squeezing, pressure against pressure.

The teacher's drone of a lecture was a distant hum, the words coherent but far away. Nevertheless, when the teacher saw his lacking posture and shot a question his way, Scott blinked, looked up, and gave the correct answer in a beat.

He was given a long, appraising look before the lecture continued. Scott straightened and leaned against his chair with a heavy but quiet exhale.

The throbbing ceased, like an ebbing tide out to sea.

When the bell rang for the last time in the day, his classmates rushed out of their seats mid-word from the teacher and sped out the door. With his proximity, Scott slipped out after a handful, his textbook tucked against his side under his arm. Before the rest of the students swarmed his vision at the doorway, he threw a glance over his shoulder at their teacher, who was shaking his head.

"Scott?"

He faced forward and smiled. "Hey."

Next to himself, Selena Ki was the picture of grace and power. She was pretty with bright round eyes and a face with an elegant cut that aged her in all the good ways. Although she was thinner than most of the girls at school, the muscles in her long bare legs, supplemented by the cheerleading uniform, boasted countless months of rigorous training. She was popular, and for a reason.

At first glance, she might have been off-putting with a display so intense. Selena, however, was anything but off-putting as she stepped closer and reached for Scott's free hand. "Hey."

Scott opened his mouth to speak when his teacher emerged from the doorway, all packed and ready to go. He greeted Selena and added, "Make sure Summers gets a good night's sleep over the weekend, won't you?"

Selena nodded, and, when the teacher was no longer within earshot, cocked her head to give Scott an upward stare. "What did he mean by that?"

"Nothing," said Scott. "Just a headache. I dropped my book outside of class."

Taking a step back, Selena frowned, the skin around her nose crinkling as her lips jut out in something akin to a less childish pout. "That's not nothing." She tugged his hand and they began to walk.

They stopped at his locker, where Scott worked the lock and deposited his textbook. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."

"And you're telling me that's not a problem?" asked Selena.

After a thoughtful pause, with his hand sitting on the top edge of his locker door, Scott said no. He was forced to withdraw his hand quickly when Selena gripped the locker door by the edge and pushed it shut, producing an unpleasant noise. "What the?"

"You listen here, Scott Summers." Selena pointed him a reproachful finger, her other hand balled into a light fist against her hip. "You've been having these headaches for as long as we've been together. When are you going to tell?"

"I'm not telling anyone."

She uttered a humph and pressed forward until the tip of her finger touched Scott's chest. "Yes, you are."

"I thought we talked about this already," said Scott, lamely.

Selena jabbed him. "What is your problem?"

"My problem? You're the one who won't let it go." Scott took a small step back, away from Selena's accusatory finger. "We talked about this. Please stop."

The slightest reddish tint splayed across Selena's cheeks. "At least tell the school nurse."

Unyielding, Scott shook his head. "No."

"You're incorrigible." Selena crossed her arms over her chest with angry exaggeration. She turned away, her gaze focused on the lockers against the wall. There was a pause, and she muttered, "You don't listen to me."

"Yeah," said Scott, stepping up to hover a hand over Selena's shoulder, "I do. But this, this is something I can't tell anyone."

"You told me," said Selena, reluctant.

"You're the second person I've ever told. I want . . . I need it to stay that way." Firmly, but gently, Scott rested his hand on Selena's shoulder. "Please?"

Selena sighed. "You're my boyfriend." With a sudden heave of a shrug, she shook off Scott's hand and pivoted on her heels. Then she was pacing down the narrow hallway, her face turned but voice bounding off the walls, "Act like one and be responsible, for once."

His mouth agape, Scott clamped his lips in a thin line and spun around. He rushed down the hallway in pursuit, but Selena was fast; he found her settling into her car seat once he had pushed through the closing doors. His jaw seized as he watched the engine start and Selena pull out of the lot.

Alone, the door swinging open and closed in slowing rhythm behind him, Scott swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. His fists unfurled with numb rigidity at his side.

The sun, in its bright and heated glory, beat on him. Scott raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the gesture was short-lived. Not long thereafter, he looked down at the pavement and sunk onto the topmost stair of the entrance. He sat there for a little while, just long enough to run a hand through his hair. Then he was up again and on the lonesome journey home, where he shot his mother a close-lipped smile before he threw himself at schoolwork.

In the middle of a long word problem, pain seared from the back of his head and circled to the sides, hugging so far along that Scott's eyes tingled. He hunched over the dining table where he was working and rested his head on one hand, his shoulders stiff.

When asked, he told his mother that the numbers were giving him a headache, to which she suspected more, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water. Scott took the painkiller to appease her, gulping down the pill with a mouthful of water, even if it did nothing for him. He settled for massaging one of his temples with his left hand, and, when asked again, lied about feeling better.

At that very moment, the spot between his eyes, above the bridge of his nose, felt pressed, like a judging point calling him out. His dear mother trusted him and was soft in the face of his feeling under the weather, and so she gave him space. Afterward, Scott shook his head and sunk into his seat.

Back to the problem, he readjusted the pencil in his right hand more times than was necessary until his palm sweat. His vision blurred and the paper became a hazy maze of distorted words, and Scott, closing his eyes, set down the pencil. He chewed on his lower lip, a groan gurgling in the back of his throat. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his muscles and said, with some grogginess and some cheer, that he was going to bed.

He retired without dinner and without waiting for his father to come home from work. His mother let him, but not before offering something warm and soothing to help him sleep. He refused, his body tried by the migraine and unwilling to be further tested.

Rather than rest, he wound up pressing his head deeper in the pillow with every passing minute. The soft padding of the pillowcase did his head no favors. After a half-hour of fruitless struggle, lying supine on the modest bed lined with the simplest white sheets, he swapped the pillow for an old textbook and slept on the cold hard, worn cover.

Several hours later, he awoke in the morning to a crick, stifling another groan. His neck protested all but the one awkward angle, which he figured midway through his morning routine. But the headache had gone in the night, and, as the thought occurred to him as he was brushing his teeth, he moved to bite down on his cheek. Instead, his teeth chomped on the plastic of the toothbrush.

Brows furrowing, Scott spat out the foamy paste. He had stretched his neck when craning over the sink, and, after the dull throb of discomfort from knotted muscles, found that he could move his head again.

He left his room and caught his father, who was finishing a cup of coffee and a fresh roll of newspaper before a half day. Scott waved him a good day out at work, slipping into his yesterday's seat the while.

His homework was still on the table, down to the exact spot he had laid down the pencil, which he took back into his hand. Within half an hour, he had finished off the problems from the night prior, packed his things in his room, and put on his sneakers to jog out the door. He announced his leaving over his shoulder, his mother unseen but heard in her equally soft, clear response in the affirmative, because there was no yelling in the house.

His family lived in a cozy home within a run-of-the-mill, middle class neighborhood. For Scott, it was a quaint place, bustling with the occasional children on the streets, yet a great deal more peaceful than the orphanage. The transition had been difficult at first, until the routine had become easier through practice and endless patience. Now, he strolled the sidewalks with his hands in his pockets, his steps familiar and pace natural, his face relaxed.

He turned a corner and met Stan, who had had a similar idea. They dropped by the nearest local store and hung around, just across the road, Scott sitting on the edge of the curb and Stan leaning against the building wall.

Scott turned his hands, his palms showing, as he revisited the events of yesterday at the hallway. "So she left and drove off by herself." He looked back at Stan, his back straining. "I probably won't be able to see her until Monday, when we go to school again."

"Nah, she definitely won't see you until Monday," said Stan.

Scott's face crinkled. "Thanks."

"Just saying, man. This is, what, the tenth time she's pulled that on you?"

Scott shook his head. "I know, but I can't be mad. I'm not even a little angry. It was my fault."

"How's it your fault? Guys need privacy, like the way she runs to the girl's room whenever she decides she can't stand your face." Stan patted his jean pockets, searching. "She's walking all over you, dude."

"I can't follow her in there. Besides, she didn't do that yesterday," said Scott.

Stan shrugged. "She'll do it again. Trust me."

Shifting, Scott planted a palm on the pavement to keep himself upright as he faced Stan. "Look, I know you have a problem with me dating Selena. But you need to lay off. She had the right idea yesterday. I admit it. I just," he faltered, heaving a deep sigh, "I just can't do what she wants."

Stan dodged the defense, one of his brows arching. "Why should you? It's not her head that's hurting."

"That's not the point, Stan," said Scott. "The point is that she has one, and all I manage to do is argue with her. It's frustrating."

"I'd be frustrated, too, if I were dating her." Stan raised both hands when Scott shot him a look. "I was joking. It was a joke."

With the lack of a substantial response and a sudden bout of despondency, Scott turned back and fell quiet. He was closing in on himself and Stan, sensing this, piped up against the tense silence, "Might want to get it seen, though. Your head. Just don't tell anyone after. Each time's worse, yeah?"

"Yeah." Scott nodded for emphasis. He swallowed. "It used to be just the back, and sometimes the sides. Now, when it's really bad, I feel it in my eyes. Everywhere hurts when that happens."

"So when are you getting looked at?" asked Stan.

"I don't know." Scott rubbed his forehead in thought. There was no pain, yet. "I don't know if I should."

Stan peeled away from the wall, took three steps forth, and clamped a hand down on Scott's shoulder. "It's all up to you, Scott. Hang in there, dude."

"Thanks," said Scott, with more feeling than the last time. His voice dropped to a low whisper. "I hope I can." He climbed onto his feet, Stan pulling away behind him. A thought struck him then.

Scott slid his hands into his pockets. "I should get going. See you later."

Stan gave a parting nod in return. He raised his hand for a complementary wave, an unlit cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. He was rounding the corner of the store for the sweet spot away from prying eyes when he said, "Later."

The modicum of burden lifted from his squared but sagging shoulders, Scott made a beeline back home, where he slipped off his shoes at the door and announced his return in kind as before. He was greeted by his mother on the way to his room, a quick opportunity for a small bit of catching up before he excused himself in relative haste. He noted that he should apologize, later.

He closed his door behind him, the air falling heavy around his lanky figure. For a fleeting moment, he considered locking the door, but decided against the idea, kicking the unusual thought.

He walked over his desk and pulled open the lowest drawer, where he withdrew a sheaf of paper. Sitting down, he plucked a pencil from the smaller top drawer before looming over a piece of paper, thinking. Flipping the pencil in his hand, Scott settled on the basics.

_Dear Alex,_

Then he was stuck and pressing the eraser end of the pencil against his chin. At the slightest pinch in his temples, he pursed his lips and wrote:.

_If I told you that I was having these awful headaches, what would you say?_

 _My girlfriend and friend are on opposite sides, but they both want me to get checked out. What do you think?._

 _

I know I should get looked at. There could be a serious problem, and if there is, it should be caught early.

But ever since they started, I've been having this thought – and it hasn't stopped – what if they aren't just headaches? What if they're a late manifestation of the accident? Am I going blind? Yesterday, I couldn't see straight.

I never told anyone about being brain damaged. I guess I'm scared of what might happen. Like these headaches.

_.

Scott tapped the erase against a blank part of the paper for a good half minute. Finally:  _Where'd you go, anyway?_.

"Probably the army, right?"

He gathered the papers and bundled them in the bottom drawer after that. He returned the pencil to the first drawer and settled his arms on the desk, sighing through his nostrils. No later than a second the air had left his nose, a relentless pressure squeezed his head and Scott grimaced.

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Scott?"

Scott turned in his chair, hand supporting his head. Before he could say a word, his mother beat him to the punch, asking how his headache was, though her tone suggested a concern for more. "Fine," he called, watching the closed door separating them, wary of keeping his own tone in check, "it's fine."

He was a lousy liar, his voice was strained, and his words had an odd pause in-between. The odd shadow blocking the light in the crack beneath the door indicated his mother was still there, testing and cogitating.

"We can talk about it, Scott," she urged. "Whatever it is that's bothering you."

Scott left his chair and opened the door just wide enough to take a peak. He saw his mother, a gentle woman with tender, creased eyes, and smiled, the corners of his lips stretching and on the verge of straining. "Can we . . . can we talk about it later?"

His mother rested a hand on the edge of the door. It was a reassuring grip, stern but not overly firm, inviting and waiting. She had no intention of prying away the obstacle between them, nor did she press the underlying issue. With a thoughtful nod, she handed off another glass of water and painkillers, instructed him to take back the empty glass to the kitchen counter, and left him in peace.

The weekend passed in an uneventful blur. In the end, Scott never sat down with his mother, nor his father, to discuss "it," in part because he neglected to bring it up as they waited, and another part because he had taken up a hobby of sleeping. He napped on and off, sometimes for hours straight, when the headaches came like the unwanted, ruthless guests they were.

There was a time on Sunday afternoon, once, when Scott blinked awake from a deep, disorienting nap and wondered for a second who he was, gauging his humble room the while. The pang in his temples was a sharp reminder of the answers.

On the other hand, Monday was an eventful blur of Scott chasing Selena from morning to afternoon, in-between classes and during lunch, then after, with Selena seeking ultimate refuge in the nearest girl's restroom once Scott came too close. He stared at the entrance, oblivious to the stares from passing female students, and, finally, turned away at the ring of the bell.

Tuesday yielded no different results, except that this time, when he found himself in front of another girl's restroom, Scott was approached by Stan.

"Again?" asked Stan.

Scott gave a terse nod, after which the bell rang to whisk him away to next period, where he spent most of it nursing a splitting headache. In spite of his slumped posture and lack of eye contact with the teacher and the board, he still proved to be an attentive student, if rather confused, like he was here and there all at once.

He caught Selena in the hallway on Wednesday, and he inched toward her from behind as she shut her locker door. Leaning an arm against the locker next to hers, Scott said with some haste, "We need to talk."

"No," said Selena, cocking her head to shoot Scott an upward glare, "you need to listen." And she walked away, her strides long, graceful, and bothered. In a matter of seconds, she was separated by a gaggle of students, made further unapproachable beside her cold shoulder.

After lunch with Stan and his motley crew was last period. Scott survived the class like the others thus far, fighting a losing battle with the aches that deafened him to the world. But when he tromped out the door after the nearly two-hour session, he looked up from the ground and the familiar shoes to Selena, whose hands were on her hips.

Grabbing his hand, Selena pulled him aside with more force than she had some five days prior. She fixed Scott a stern, delicate scowl, the creases in her fair face unmoved by the sight of him rubbing his forehead in obvious discomfort.

"Everyone's been talking. Are you listening?" demanded Selena.

Scott nodded, still rubbing. "Yeah. I'm listening."

"Everyone's been talking."

"About what?" asked Scott.

"About you. You're acting weird." Selena gestured to all of him, as though she expected the answer to be simple.

Scott looked up. He was hunched, shoulders slumped and head bowed, and this brought him down to Selena's height, who was by no means a short girl. "I'm tired."

Folding her arms, her fingers snaking around the length of her forearm and elbow, Selena shifted her weight onto one leg. "What did you do this weekend?"

"Sleep."

"How can you be tired, then?"

"Selena, I slept all weekend, because I couldn't stop feeling tired," said Scott. As if the very discussion of it drained him of energy, his hand dropped to his side.

"This wouldn't be a problem if you just listened, Scott," said Selena, echoing the call of name.

A deep exhalation passed through his nose, and Scott eyed the floor. Then he looked back to Selena, saw the intense scrutiny with which she stared back, and stifled the oncoming sigh. "Mom asked me about it."

Her interest piqued, Selena took a small step forward and rolled back her shoulder. She urged him to go on with the minute nod of her chin, and, in spite of their relatively equal height, her gaze was pointed downward.

This time, Scott did sigh. "I said I'd tell her later."

If she were any less restrained, Selena's nostrils would have flared. She settled for a delicate crane of her neck as she pressed the tips of her slim fingers against her temple. With closed eyes, she rubbed in circular motions reminiscent of Scott's way of tending to his recent migraines. "You were supposed to tell her."

"I'm going to," said Scott, hastily. "Selena, I know what you're doing." He stopped to swallow, his throat swelling from the tension in the air. "I know you're trying to help me. And I'm going to do it – but I can't do it fast. I need to – "

"You need to take your time," cut in Selena. She had stopped rubbing and her hand was splayed open, her fingers spread away from her. "You're that kind of guy. You always need time. Always."

When she stopped there, staring off to space beside them, Scott wondered if she were thinking of the time he had revealed waiting months to confess. He let another moment pass between them, and then tried, "Selena?"

Selena's shoulders sunk. She shook her head. "As long as you tell her, Scott. Tell her after prom. For yourself. For me. Please?"

At the mention of prom, Scott reeled. In the drama of the past week, he had almost forgotten, in that odd way where he had thought about what the cold shoulder meant for the dance without considering the proximity of the date. The realization flashed like lightning in his mind and faded as quickly as it had come.

Scott pushed the thought aside and nodded, bobbing his head several times to ensure the gesture was not missed. He saw something in Selena's eyes twinkle when she relaxed and spread her arms, waiting. With a wry smile, Scott hugged her, even though a part of him dreaded the outcome of their talk and numbed his senses.

His eyes widened when Selena pulled away with sudden force and jabbed a finger at his chest, her expression cross but not serious.

"And stop acting weird. You're supposed to be my sweet, normal boyfriend," she said.

Scott chuckled, the throbbing in the usual place a distant sensation. "I'll try."

"Come on," she grasped him by both hands, enveloping them in her long, slender fingers, "I'll drive you home."

"Is this supposed to be you speeding up the process?" asked Scott, his brows raised.

"You're a lost cause, Scott Summers," quipped Selena.

Thanks to Selena, who was all small smiles and comforting glances, Scott was driven home. But after she left him on the street in front of his home, herself in high spirits, Scott's wave became less vivacious with the mounting distance the car put between them, until he was again on the verge of slumping. The posture did little to diminish his lanky height; however, it was the prognosis of hunching that kept his frame straight, regardless of how burning the need to curl in was when familiar ache struck.

Scott stared that night, after he had turned in bed, squeezed his eyes shut to fight the pain swallowing them – to no avail – and discovered wet tears on palming his eyelids.

The tears were a nightly occurrence, up to the moment his eyes watered at the dinner table illuminated by the lingering summer sun. Sensing his mother rising from her seat across him, Scott hunched over his edge of the table and dug the heel of his hands in his face. There was a throb, followed by a sharp tug, then a burning sensation that originated from his eyes and cut through his skull from front to back.

His father pushed his meal aside and leaned an arm on the table. His lips were set into a thin line, and his brows furrowed as he watched his wife hover around their son.

Scott remained hunched, his gaze drawn to the glazed wood of the dinner table. His arms, propped by the elbows on that shiny surface, cast an almost menacing shadow in his line of sight when his very vision began to wobble. He watched, unblinking, as the shadows seemed to come to life until the faintest glint of dim, but lording, light reflected off the table surface in a corner.

A renewed pain like fire excited by oil seared through his eyes, so intense that Scott, with a stifled cry, threw himself out of his seat and away from the wide window on the dinner table side. His right elbow bumped his mother in the uncontrolled leap, and though she did not so much as gasp or make a sound, Scott was keenly aware of wide eyes, coupled with an agape mouth, watching him and the way his hands clamped down harder on his warm face.

There was the familiar, soft scrape of the chair against the floor. His father had stood, all notions of a peaceful dinner forgotten; between his reproachful stare and the uneasy quiet put out by his wife, Scott's heart pounded faster against a tight chest under their scrutiny. The darkness pushed onto him by his closed, teary eyes exacerbated their obvious disappointment.

"That's it," he heard his father say, in a tone that brooked no protests, "we're seeing a specialist. Tomorrow."

Scott stood, paralyzed by the unyielding atmosphere dripping with vexation, before he fled to his room at a slow, sluggish pace. He pushed his back against the door, and it closed with a soft click as he slid down to cradle his pounding head in his hands. The rest of him was numb, the rapid pacing of his heart having steadied to something still quick but quieter.

He went to bed early that night and was jolted awake by a persistent knock in the following morning. His father, a lenient man under normal circumstances, was as stiff now as he had been the night prior, and he wasted no time searching high and low for an available eye specialist. By comparison, his mother was ever the gracious lady and balanced her husband's negative energy; however, she fidgeted nonstop in the ride around town, her gaze flickering often to Scott, who shrunk back farther every time, through the rear mirror.

Scott gripped his jeans at his knees in the car seat, blind to the racing surroundings of the colorful world beyond the window. He stared at the floor of the car instead, already squinting and his body tense.

They saw the eye specialist, who, after a thorough examination and series of questions, returned to Scott's parents with a shake of his head. Scott's vision was impeccable, and so was his overall health; there was no explanation to his pain or aversion to light. In the end, the specialist recommended some painkillers and a pair of shades, and sent the family on their way.

Home routine remained largely the same after the visit. Scott's father went to work in the morning and came home in the evening, and his mother tended to the house. After presenting a pair of shades, she encouraged her son to go outdoors; however, Scott, dreading the sunlight and the knowledge of his mysteriously deteriorating health, withdrew more often into his room. It was school that ultimately called him out, and there, he kept to himself unless approached, and wore the shades in his moments alone.

It was just after an early morning class when Scott, being the last in the room after a crowd of students eager to leave, leaned against the doorway, grimacing. He pinched the spot between his eyes, above the bridge of his nose, and the pain subsided from sharp to dull. The dizziness made his vision blur, the white tiles of the school floor bending as though he were swimming outside of water with open eyes.

"Scott? Are you okay?"

Recognizing the voice, Scott nodded, the motion lethargic. "I'm fine, Bonnie."

Bonnie persisted, "Do you need the nurse?"

"No. I'm fine."

Scott straightened, keen to dissuade Bonnie, when arms enveloped his lanky torso. He stiffened, even as Bonnie bid him the most earnest get-well wish. Then she was off, and, pressed by the impending bell, bounded down the hall to her next class.

Sighing, Scott squared his shoulders and peeled away from the doorway when Selena approached from the other end of the hall. Scott bit his lower lip, his thoughts flashing to the pair of shades in his pocket. A part of him wanted to wear it, if only to avoid looking Selena in her intense eyes.

"What was that?" asked Selena.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Scott Summers." Scott averted his gaze, but Selena followed, rounding on him again. "I saw what she did."

"It's Bonnie. She hugs everyone," said Scott, with more feeling than he might have intended.

He had been too tired then to gauge Selena's expressions and body language. The words were tumbling out on their own, spurred on by exhaustion and festering irritation; he would have snipped at anyone who bothered to keep his company. It took a second of second thought, however, and Scott focused suddenly on Selena, whose face was contorted and a little red.

The hallway was deserted and seemed to reverberate against Selena's yelling. As of late, he had been evading her and refusing to hold down a proper conversation – all of this before he had to abandon more responsibility and get involved with another girl. She pushed him, not hard but enough to rock him in his place.

"You probably told  _her_  first!"

Scott scowled, his volume escalating, just slightly, in a halfhearted attempt to meet Selena's. "Who, Bonnie? I barely know her. You don't know what you're saying."

With a sharp intake of breath and pursed lips, Selena spun on her heels and took off. Scott scuttled the opposite direction with an inward curse when the bell rang.

There was no reconciling with Selena, who danced around him with furious vengeance. At every turn, she looked away, walked the other way, or entered an irrelevant room or sidewalk. With every day that passed, their fuses shortened and the rift between them grew, until Selena and Scott could hardly stand to look at each other. But there was the prom to consider, and, the day before the event, they settled for a cold truce.

By then, Scott's headache had progressed to encompass all of his head whenever the pain spiked, and his eyes watered and hurt on frequent intervals. He was in no mood for conversation the night of the prom, much less enthused. His unintentional cold shoulder ignited Selena's temper again, and they separated during the dance. No sooner had they done that did Scott's eyes prick like they had been set on fire, and he stumbled into the boys' restroom in time to bore a hole in the wall.


	3. Interlude

Charles sat behind his desk in his study, fingers resting against his chin. They were gaining momentum – slowly, rocky, but momentum still, as much as Alex had predicted. The institute had a few more teachers who were scheduled to come in from their own homes in the nearest term possible. The children, the majority of which were orphans, were a greater, more numerous presence, and the mere sight of them rejuvenated his spirit. There was still, however, room for more.

He had finished speaking to Hank, who had been nothing if not a patient listener in all the moments the subject had cropped up in a hushed environment. This last occasion, Hank had left him with the encouragement to think on the person of their discussion. In doing so, Charles decided then that Cerebro was due another visit.

He was tempted to search again, despite what he had said to Alex. At the time, he had been confident he could locate Scott, but the task had proven more arduous than expected. Regret lingered in the corners of his mind, and Charles struggled to squash it.

It would be convenient if Scott were a mutant, as he was surely meant to be, to shave off the populaces to search. Even then, the most ideal solution still was to wait: Mutants, just like homo sapiens, blossomed in their own time. Perhaps that time would be now.

The time did, in fact, come around that evening in the midst of his regular sweep for mutants. Through his mind's reinforced eyes, he saw the walls of an institutional building crumbling against a powerful force. He had little opportunity to assess the full extent of the damage as a lanky figure emerged from a gaping hole inside, past the dust and debris, and sped blindly down the hall. The boy burst through the doors like someone possessed, and voices of teenagers, the boy's schoolmates, echoed in Charles' foggy vision: _Scott! Come back! Summers!_

He was in Southern California. Scott, Charles realized, did not share much in the way of resemblance with Alex.

Swiveling as fast as his chair would allow, Charles ascended to the ground floor of the institute. By sheer coincidence, Hank was roaming the hall nearby and approached when beckoned, setting aside important papers in his grasp.

"I've found him," said Charles.

"You mean – "

"Yes. And it's imperative that we leave, now."

Hank raced back to his corner of the institute for what he deemed necessary materials, then dashed back to Charles' side. Their departure, however, grinded to an abrupt halt when Alex surfaced from the stairway.

"You're leaving again? Who'd you find this time?" asked Alex.

"Stay and watch the children," instructed Charles. He headed for the doors, Hank at his side.

"What, you're not going to tell me?"

His shoulders slumping with an internal sigh, Charles turned back to regard Alex as Hank held the door. "Alex, we can't afford to answer your questions right now. Time is short." But he could not well leave in such a manner, and so he continued, "This is important to all of us – you, especially."

Alex's face darkened instantly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed air. He took a heavy step forward. "I'm going with you."

"No," said Charles, with finality, "you are not."

"Yes, I am."

"Then who'll stay with the children?" demanded Charles.

"Hank can do it." Alex took another handful of long strides, his eyes narrowed. "I have to go. He's my brother."

"Alex, the reason I'm bringing Hank is because he helped you moderate your mutation. He may be able to do the same for Scott."

All the fight Alex had had in him to dispute Hank's qualifications fell visibly short. He swallowed again, silence momentarily seizing his sinewy frame. "Scott's a mutant?"

"We'll discuss this later. Please, Alex, watch the children." Charles enunciated with care, beseeching. "They need you."

They could not afford to stall any longer, and so Charles, with a nod of thanks to Hank, departed for the impromptu trip. Left to himself, Alex ran a hand through his hair and wrung the towel wrapped around his shoulders with the other. Although he had just come up from the bunker, he had half a mind right then to go back down – only, he had not the luxury of such a release when a thump sounded from upstairs, followed by a child complaining about food.


	4. Alex and Scott

Until Hank could devise a contraption with which he could contain his optic blasts, Scott was reduced to hobbling his way around Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He was aided by his soon-to-be peers in school, for which there was no current term in session, although the first in a long while was rumored to begin soon. The teachers were beginning to shuffle in, one by one, and there was already Professor Charles.

Of the children, Scott was among the oldest, or so he had been told. Judging from the sound of their voices, he was inclined to believe it. At the very least, he was without a doubt the tallest; having overshot his peers in his previous school at the onset of puberty, this came to him as no surprise. That he was the biggest and, therefore, supposed to be the most mature flocked the children to him.

They showed him around, taking him around every nook and cranny of the school they could reach. By having so much to say about each part of the mansion, the children provided Scott ample time to feel the walls and rails and furniture, to explore in the one way he knew with half of his face covered and bound. His mind wandered throughout the explanations, and he kept his black gaze pointed away from the voices.

" . . . and this is Hank's door, but you shouldn't go in without telling him, because he'll . . . "

The tour dragged on for an indiscernible amount of time. Their next destination was the hallway upstairs, where Scott, absorbed in his racing thoughts and paranoia, only realized the children had quieted (and never heard the thunderous thumping of heavy, rapid footsteps) when an athletic pair of arms enveloped his torso from behind.

Scott went rigid, growing quieter still when an older voice whispered into his ear: "Scott. Don't freak out."

The voice was masculine and almost throaty despite the softness, with what Scott could describe as a thick layer of gentleness at best. There was a hint of familiarity in the person's tone that did nothing to stir Scott's own memory.

Even if he had wanted to, he could not lose his wits. Ever since he had been picked up in a panicky terror some distance from his old school, a numbing apathy had overcome him. Scott supposed it was a coping mechanism meant to cage his hysteria, which wound up stuck in his head and crashing hard against the walls of his mind.

In the stranger's arms, he found himself number. The silence was deafening that Scott wondered if the children were still there, and if he should reach out and see if he could touch one's shoulder.

He was beginning to feel the prickle of annoyance rising at the sudden and unwarranted touch. He was in no mood for physical contact –

"It's Alex," came the whisper. "I know it's been a long time, but it's me – your brother. You and me, we're both mutants. They told you about that, the Professor and Hank, right? We're both going to be living here. You know what that means?"

Scott turned his head by a minuscule inch, just as he would have to look over his shoulder if his eyes had been working. The smile in Alex's voice was palpable.

"It means I'm going to take care of you from now on."

Scott let out a breath that he had unwittingly been holding. He turned his gaze upward, where the wall was, and leaned forward until his forehead touched it with a soft thud. If only he could see, he thought. "All this time, you were here."

And so were the children. "What?"


End file.
